


Forgiving Father

by In_Cogito



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Antisocial Personality Disorder, Dark Malcolm Bright, Diagnostic Inaccuracies, Gen, Good Husband Martin Whitly, Good Parent Martin Whitly, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Role Swap AU, psychopathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:27:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Cogito/pseuds/In_Cogito
Summary: “I’m not sure of all the details myself, but I know it’s a special case.  Lieutenant Arroyo asked for you specifically.”Doctor Whitly stopped in his tracks at that.  Arroyo.  There was only one person Martin knew with that name.  And he wouldn’t be asking for Martin for just any small favor.Role swap AU.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Martin Whitly & Gil Arroyo, Martin Whitly & Jessica Whitly
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	Forgiving Father

**Author's Note:**

> I was too eager to post this. Will go back and edit when I can!

**2019**

Endicott Pharmaceuticals let him go. 

Maybe the work experience didn’t mean a damn thing. Maybe the world could turn on you no matter how old you were or what or who you knew. Martin took another drink of his tea and went back to watching the Hudson from his spot on the park bench. Alone. And bored, all things considered. According to the long line of therapists and social workers he had the pleasure (or displeasure) of meeting, he wasn’t able to really feel hurt by such a thing. Punishment didn’t work with psychopaths, not as far as getting them to behave went. That didn’t mean there wasn’t something sobering and hollowing about his employment being terminated without warning. Who knows? If he went off meds, he might have even been angry about it. 

For the longest time, Dr. Martin Whitly thought that his practice in medicine and surgery was the closest he would ever come to valuing another human life. And then it was gone. 

The old man stared down into the deep green liquid in his styrofoam cup and took another swig. No matter. It was hardly his fault anyways. Sure, he wasn’t perfect. But he didn’t do anything wrong, either (not this time). A boss who puts you on an assignment and then fires you for getting “too close” wasn’t a boss worth working for in the first place, nevermind that it was work that no board of ethics would just let slide, not if they actually knew what was going on. Bad management. That’s what that was. 

“Jodi, come on! Pay attention! You’re going to get lost again.”

Whatever. He had his savings and a polished resume. If morons wanted to run around being morons, that was fine by him. A small plus of being unemployed was that there wasn’t an immediate need to be anywhere. Stigma couldn’t hurt Martin. Not really. He had no problem treating it like a day off. And what better way to spend a day off than by doing nothing? 

“Are you even listening?!”

Peace and quiet would have been nice. If not for the mother scolding her child loud enough for even him to hear, that is. Others were starting to take notice, too. Most tried to ignore it. It wasn’t their business. A handful snuck glances or whispered to a friend about the incident. Martin himself caught himself watching. Not the mother. The child. She stood on the stone walkway, brown hair in a ponytail and wearing a puffy purple coat, and seemed to stare at nothing. Her mother stood not far off and called again. The girl didn’t reply. 

Martin frowned. Something was wrong. 

She stumbled one step. Two. 

And collapsed into the grass, motionless and unresponsive.

“Jodi? Jodi?!”

Her mother panicked. Pedestrians froze. One pulled out a smartphone. The mother shrieked, dove for the tiny body, hands hovering inches but ultimately paralyzed and unable to help. Terror. Even Martin could recognize it, just this once. He abandoned his tea and closed the distance between him and the mother and daughter, forcing his way through before the crowd could truly form. “Everybody back away! I’m a doctor!” Old and dried up, a doctor was still a doctor. He fell to his knees immediately to inspect the child. 

Hands went first to her neck. She had a pulse. Abnormal, but it was there. A little more prodding and he found no indication of an obstructed airway. He inspected lower. Muscles in the cardiothoracic region had gone tight. Enough to hinder the child’s breathing but not enough to completely incapacitate it. The man started to form a theory. It’d been a long time since Martin last picked up a neurology textbook, but he remembered enough first aid to know what to do. “Someone set a timer.”

A few gasps bubbled up. The first smartphone guy fumbled with the apps before proclaiming a loud “Got it!” and holding the device out. Seconds ticked by with the stopwatch function. Martin ripped off his coat, folded it in half and gingerly tucked it under the little girl’s head. 

Her mother was still frozen in terror. Hoodie. Leggings. Bob hair cut. Had to have been somewhere near or just under thirty. “How old is she,” the man demanded. 

“That’s Jodi. She’s my daughter. She’s only s-seven.”

“Has this happened before?” He checked the child’s wrists. No bracelet. No indication that this was a normal occurrence or related to a preexisting condition.

“N-No.”

“Has she been sick recently?”

“No.”

“Has she eaten anything in the past twelve hours that she shouldn’t have?” 

Silence.

“Ma’am? Has she put anything in her mouth in the past twelve hours that she shouldn’t have?”

Her eyes started to water. “I-I don’t know. I don’t know!” She finally burst into tears. “Please, just save my baby!” 

She was panicking. Shame. The mother wouldn’t be much help like that. There were plenty of things that could amplify emotion and overthrow the rational mind. Sex. Alcohol. Harm against a child. One of the perks of a personality disorder was that not every emotion hit the same. Certain parts of the human experience were simply missing and it made accomplishing certain tasks easier. And what people needed in times like these was someone who could keep cool and calm. Martin was just that person. He moved the little girl on her side, brought one leg up, and took her hand to tuck under her chin. Surveillance and an unrestricted airway was only going to help. 

He couldn’t help but note how soft the little girl’s skin was. Fucking hell. Even shifting her into the recovery position gave him a small hit of dopamine. Pleasure from direct contact with the human body. That was something Martin was never able to train out. 

Nevermind. There were more important things to worry about. “I need a mirror.” 

The mother offered a powder compact. The man opened it and held it to the girl’s mouth. The glass fogged. First in small patches. And finally in bigger patches that stretched to the edges of the frame. He checked the muscles again and found that they had finally relaxed. Less restriction meant better oxygen flow to the brain. Her eyes started to flutter open. “Stop that timer and give me the number.”

“. . . One minute and seven seconds!”

Great. Perfect. They wouldn’t need to call an ambulance. He gave the phone guy a thumbs up. 

The mother forced herself into Martin’s field of vision. “Is my baby gonna be ok?” 

“Ma’am, please-” 

“Sir, I have to know she’s going to make it-”

“Quiet.” Martin commanded the mother firmly and she immediately went quiet. “Your daughter’s coming to. And she’s going to need you to stay calm and speak softly. If we can’t rely on you to do that, then I’m going to have to ask you to step back and let me handle it.” 

The mother swallowed. Reluctantly, she straightened up and stepped back. Finally. He could better work. Doctor Whitly turned his attention back to the girl. Sure enough, consciousness and awareness were returning bit by bit. Her lips parted. She said nothing and attempted to lift her head up. It wasn’t long before she let herself rest on the folded up coat again. 

“Hey, there. Welcome back. Ah-ah.” He was quick to keep her down when she moved to get up before it was wise to do so. “Easy there. I think you should rest for a minute or two.” He rubbed short strokes into her shoulder. “You gave your mother quite the scare, but the worst is over now. I promise.” 

“Where am I?”

“This is the park. And I’m Doctor Whitly. I saw you fall not long ago and I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions about what happened just now. Is that ok?”

The little girl nodded. 

“Good. Thank you.” He adjusted his seat on his feet and knees. “Can you tell me your name?”

“. . . Jodi.”

“Jodi, huh? It’s very nice to meet you, Jodi.” He picked another question. “Can you tell me when your birthday is?”

She looked back up to him. “April fifth.” She had blue eyes. Very pretty blue eyes. 

“Good job. That’s great. Can you . . . tell how old you are?”

“Seven years old.”

“Really? You’re getting pretty big, aren’t you? Ok, next question. Uh, two, actually. Can you remember what you were doing at the park? Or what you ate for breakfast this morning?”

She started to look around. Her eyes watered. “. . . No.”

“That’s alright. That’s ok. What’s important is that you’re telling the truth.” 

“Mommy says that, too.”

“Hey, great minds. Speaking of which, is there anything else you want to tell me? Do you feel funny right now? Maybe like you’re tired or dizzy or you feel like getting sick?”

Jodi nodded. “Tired and dizzy. And my head hurts.”

“Like you hit it?”

“. . . No. It hurts like reading books for too long.”

“Like reading books for too long. I see.” It registered vaguely as a relief. Injury was ultimately the worst thing about a fall like that. “That’s alright. We’ll stay here as long as you need to.” The little girl seemed content with that. Martin put the pieces together. Headache. Loss of memory. Sudden collapse. He could confirm what it was, though it wasn’t quite the sudden, jittery ordeal that television and movies often made it out to be. They weren’t unheard of in children. And they could even be grown out of, but that didn’t mean they weren’t serious. “Jodi, do you know what a seizure is?”

The mother cut in. “Sir, I don’t think-”

“It’s alright.” He didn’t snap. No one needed that right now. “She’s old enough to know.” Martin turned his attention back to Jodi. “Granted, I don’t practice with kids a whole lot, but it looks like you had one just now. Do you know what those are?”

Jodi made a face.

“That’s alright. I’ll explain. So,” Martin held up both of his hands as if he were holding a ball, “you have the brain. It’s the supercomputer, the ringmaster behind everything else the body does. Walking, talking, and just about anything else you can imagine a person doing. And it gives those orders out with these electrical signals. When a person has a seizure, too many of those signals fire off at once. Think of it like an electrical storm going off in your head. Sometimes you get them when you’re really sick or when you have certain imbalances in the body. And sometimes you get them for seemingly no reason at all.” 

Jodi kept staring up at him, listening. 

“It can be pretty scary. You might, like you said, not feel too great afterwards or remember what happened.”

“I wanna go home.”

“I bet. Seizures can leave you feeling pretty exhausted, too. Your mother might want to take you to a doctor first, though.” 

“I thought you said you were a doctor.”

“You’re right. I did. And I am.” Martin smiled. She was a sharp one, just like his own children at that age. “But I also said I don’t work a lot with kids. And I don’t know you better than your family doctor knows you. Ultimately they’ll be a bigger help to you than I am. Does that make sense?”

Jodi nodded. “I’m feeling a little better now.”

“Really? Think you can sit up?”

Jodi rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself up on her hands and knees. 

“There you go. Good job.” He gave her a small pat on the back. Some instincts didn’t quite go away, as a father or as a medical professional. “How about you give your mom a hug. She was pretty worried about you. It might help you both feel better.” 

Little Jodi reached up and her mother took her in her arms, hoisting her up a bit higher and holding on like she would break if dropped. 

Martin stood back up. “Hey. Mom.”

The woman startled. “Y-Yes?”

“Jodi’s gonna be fine. Kids are tough. They bounce back fast. And you’re gonna get her in for a check up to make sure that happens, right?” 

She nodded, still shaken. But she got the message. Things would be alright. 

“Good. Then my work here is done.” He picked his coat back up and turned to address the onlookers. “No need to worry. Everything's all taken care of. Carry on. There’s nothing left to see.” 

The crowd cleared bit by bit. People exchanged accounts of the event. A younger person held up their phone, having apparently taken a video of the order, and their friend promptly smacked the device out of their hand. Martin realized too late that perhaps he should have offered to call a cab for the mother and daughter, but they were gone by that time. No matter. They would be fine. Soon enough the afternoon was calm again. 

Until one person was left. One precious person who the old man thought he’d never see again.

“Hey, Martin.” 

She stepped forward, dressed in a simple blouse, navy skirt, flats and open coat. The regal air she used to carry herself had worn and faded with time. Something in her had settled and gone quiet. Something humble. She was letting the roots of her hair turn grey. Loose curls of auburn fell down either side of the front of her chest. And she walked around in the open like her crows feet didn’t bother her. Still, she was a sight to behold. Eight years since that fateful night, many more years since the marriage began and she was still as beautiful as Martin remembered.

“I was in the area and saw what you did there,” said Jessica. “That was pretty impressive.”

She stepped closer still. An expression of intrigue. Her face remained calm with the barest notes of somber fondness. She wanted to talk. They were well within the distance one would occupy if they wanted to hold a conversation. It took several seconds for the man to realize that meant he was supposed to engage. “Uh, well.” Martin shrugged. “You know. M.D. doesn’t do any good if it just sits there.” She smirked. And Martin couldn’t help but feel a bit disarmed. He hadn’t gotten to experience her warm presence in . . . far too long. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he admitted. 

“How so?”

“Divorce is pretty final, wouldn’t you agree?”   
  


She looked out to the Hudson. “I do.” 

All marriage ends in death or divorce. Divorce happens for a number of reasons. Money. Infidelity. Their case was . . . something of an outlier, but that brought an irretrievable breakdown with it nonetheless. It hurt. Hurt long and hard and in many ways that none of them completely recovered from. But Martin didn’t hate her. He could never hate or blame her or wish her anything other than the best. She’d been such an important part of his life for far too long. And that fact remained true, even beyond the end. 

On the day they signed the papers, children gone and family broken, Martin Whitly learned what it meant to be truly lost and alone. 

“. . . Well.” The man cleared his throat. The tightness in his chest didn’t leave. “You seem to be doing well. And trust me. It was an absolute pleasure to see you again. I can . . . let you go. I’m sure you’re still a busy wom-”

“Are you free tonight?”

Well. That was unexpected. Not just for Martin, given how Jessica’s expression slowly turned to one of shock. “Sorry,” she audibly fumbled over her own words. “Sorry. I’m not-”

“What did you have in mind?”

“. . . My place.” She gave a small shrug. “Her place” wasn’t very extravagant if her body language was any indication. “We can catch up. I can cook or order something. Are you ok with dogs?”

“I don’t mind them. It’s me they seem to have a problem with.”

“Oh, Marshall’s old. He won’t give you any trouble.” She rummaged around in her handbag (a much more modest one than she used to use) and pulled out a pen and a chunky, dollar store notepad. “I’ll give you my address. Come by at around six. Or, you know. Don’t. You have a life, after all.”

“No, I will. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She smiled and that was that. Jessica tore off the paper, gave Martin her address, and she gave a quick “see you later” before continuing down the stone walkway along the river. It should have been a terrible idea. It probably was. But the only thing Martin could bother to worry about was if he had enough cash in his wallet to purchase a bottle of wine for the two of them. 

* * *

Jessica Whitly, born to the well respected and aristocratic Milton family, could cackle. 

It wasn’t an evil or manic cackle, preceded by shifty eyes and fingertips drumming together. It was a cackle. Sometimes a guffaw or a snort. Three glasses of cheap merlot into the evening and it was like the divorce had never happened. Maybe even like the marriage itself had never happened. Jessica smacked her hand into the air, narrowly missing Martin’s shoulder and hitting the couch cushion behind them. Frankly, she could hardly tell her story at this point, having gone off on so many tangents that there was no way the punchline would land.

Not that Martin minded at all. He wasn’t built to appreciate it, but there was a certain tranquility to Jessica’s ramblings. It took him back to their days in university and long lunch hours spent at their spot under the old maple tree as the leaves changed color. 

Marshall seemed content to lounge around on the far corner of the carpet. Jessica was right. He did seem to be an old mutt. Outside of a black and tan fur pattern, there wasn’t much in the way of identifying features. But he was amiable, at least, if not friendly. A bit big for the apartment, sure, but who was complaining? In fact, she seemed to have made a good life for herself in this tiny run down complex. Jessica played up being cut off and disowned after the divorce as being one of the best things that ever happened to her. With the funds she had left she bought up an old apartment complex and started renting out rooms. Many of her tenants were foreigners just trying to get by. And they didn’t see their landlady as someone they needed to fear. One of them even came up offering her pastelillos that didn’t get sold that day and chatting in a language that Martin didn’t know but that Jessica responded to as though she had been speaking it her whole life. 

(The phrase “tu novio” spurred her into a response that must’ve been something to the effect of “oh, stop, you”. When Martin asked what it was about, she waved him off and eagerly searched for the nearest corkscrew.) 

“Oh, God. I shouldn’t be drinking this.” The woman fell into another giggling fit, the rim of the glass hovering near her lips but never quite connecting. A small amount of red liquid pooled at the bottom. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it.” He sipped from his first. 

“No, no, no. I’m-” She cleared her throat. “I’m in a better place now. It’s a treat. It really is. Not, like, anything to . . . uh, cope. On average I go dry for a month now and don’t even think about it.”

“Is that true? Or are those- gee, how did you put it- gymnastics? That your ‘dumb addict brain’ is making, as you so elequently put it before?”

“Mmm. No, I mean it. Look.” Jessica leaned forward and set her wine glass on the coffee table next to the plate of pastelillos they had been slowly picking away at. And she left it there. “See? Don’t need it.”

Martin snorted. “Easy to say that when you’ve finished the glass.” 

“Maybe.” Jessica shifted on the couch. “Scooch.” 

“Scooch where?”

But she didn’t answer him. Jessica swung her legs over the arm of the sofa and leaned back into Martin’s lap. He stiffened briefly and stared down at her. Yes, she really did do that. He could confirm. Her weight in his lap was still as comfortable as it was when they first started dating. 

“Is this ok?” Jessica looked up from her spot in his lap with an unbothered expression, still lax and flushed from the alcohol. 

“. . . Sure.” Martin let his hand rest against the curve of her head. Her hair was soft. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Jessica hummed and closed her eyes. It was funny, knowing that she could fall into this position, this rhythm for two, so easily after so many years apart. Or that the woman still wanted anything to do with him, knowing what he was. “This . . .” She circled a finger in the air and let it flop back down. “You said that this helped.”

“Yes I did.”

“The, uh-” The woman snickered briefly. “The cuddle hormone, right?”

“Oxytocin.” 

“Right.” 

“Last I heard the results were still mixed. But there are those who have been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder that benefit from regular contact.” 

Jessica should have run back in college. Far away. And she should have stayed away, but that clearly didn’t happen. He found her utterly drenched standing before the door of his dorm room a week after he told her the truth about what he was and broke the relationship off. He hardly got a word out before she threw his arms around him and refused to let go. Admittedly, Martin didn’t know what to do. He was an actor without a script, a rock who didn’t know how to properly hold someone up. They stood in the open doorway for a good ten minutes before they made their way inside. 

The problem was too big for a mere cup of tea and a pat on the back to fix. But Jessica wasn’t about to give up on Martin because of it. So they tried again. Took it day by day. Week by week. Month by month. They found patterns, loopholes, shortcuts, and above all solutions. That was about the time when cuddling became a regular habit and when they would take just about every chance possible to hold onto the other in whatever way they could manage. And finally,  _ finally _ , they could believe that this could work out after all. 

Last time they got to do that was . . . Christ, it had to have been before the divorce. Martin didn’t realize just how essential it was to be so intimately flush with another person. 

“You should try one of those professional cuddlers. I mean,” she was starting to slur, “It’s not my business anymore, but maybe you should.” 

. . . Right. Pay a dollar a minute to have someone put their arms around you and just lay there. These days people seemed to be more accepting of the idea that not everyone got what they needed. Not just food or sleep, but touch and companionship and the like. Loneliness was now a need that could be satisfied as far as the market was concerned. Martin shook his head. “Nah. It’s not for me.”

The woman closed her eyes and didn’t bother to get up from Martin’s lap. Martin didn’t bother to shove her off. A police siren faded in and out outside, echoing through the gaps and alleyways of the city. The gentle light of the lamp warmed the small apartment. Out a small window, the New York skyline glittered against the night. After a good meal in good company, there was little left to do but be and to let the rest of the evening float on by. 

It was quiet. And when it’s quiet, that’s when things start to creep to the surface and come out. For better or for worse. 

“Do you still love me?”

Martin felt his expression soften. “Are you sure you should be asking that kind of question?”

“I mean . . .” Jessica took a strand of her hair to twist idly in her fingers. “I know it’s not the same as with other people.”

“And then there’s the elephant in the room.”

“Hm?”

“The divorce.”

“I know,” she said. “I know I lost something good.” She had more to say and Martin let her. “There was a long time when I couldn’t go a day without thinking about it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy with the life I have now. Except when Marshall tries to eat my socks.” Jessica tried to laugh again but there wasn’t much joy in it. 

They were finally running out, then. Of joy. It was inevitable. “Any particular reason why you invited me over then?”

Jessica didn’t say anything. Not immediately. But the truth came out, as it always did at some point. “I miss it, you know? I didn’t know when I would get another chance.”

Martin hummed. If he were a normal person like her, he would miss it, too. Maybe he already did. There was no hollow ache in his heart or a longing that would bookend every unpromising morning and every lonely evening. But not even he could deny that something was missing. 

“You know why I kept the Whitly name?”

“You said that you’d been a Whitly longer than you’d been a Milton.”

“I lied when I said that.” She started playing with the fringe on a nearby throw pillow. “I wanted something that would still connect me to our children.” 

Figures. Sometimes the things you want the most can’t be bought. 

“Do you think it was our fault?”

Her voice was soft and airy. Mourning and alcohol added a lilt to her words. Martin went still. The question could mean anything in a vacuum where nothing happened. But that was wishful thinking. “Do I think what was our fault?”

“ . . . Malcolm. And Ainsley.”

Malcolm and Ainsley. Our son and daughter. Meaning, how they turned out. Meaning, did we fail as parents. Martin inhaled and exhaled out his nose, letting himself rest fully against the back of the couch. The arrest tore them all apart. Ainsley was never the same. At this point no one had heard from her in years. And staying together just hurt more than being alone in the suffering- for all three of them. Who could possibly call for the arrest of someone they were supposed to love? How could a young man who was finally on his way to achieving a happy future turn around and turn out to be so malicious and evil? Where did Martin go wrong?

Perhaps it was all the way back to when he first dared to want something more than what he had. Maybe some people just shouldn’t ever get a chance to throw their hand in the gene pool. Maybe he should have never had the chance to father children of his own. 

“I don’t know what to think,” he finally said.

That was a lie. 

“Maybe I was a terrible mother.”

“That’s not true.” He gave her hairline a soothing stroke. “We never asked for things to turn out that way.” 

Jessica looked up at him. 

“We just wanted a family.” He reached to hold her hand in his and she let him. “Frankly, the fact that you got me to want kids at all is . . . a miracle. I don’t go about it the same way that you do, but I do wonder. I think about what I could have done differently. Or if I made the right choice in the end.” 

If Martin closed his eyes he could still see it. The night. The overly saturated blur of red and blue, the sirens as they roared and bellowed. His wife hiding somewhere in the house behind him. Ainsley. How she stood there like nothing more than a shell of a person. The officer who took his statement with a rootbeer lollipop in his left hand. But the worst part of it all was who the police were taking away and the way his own son looked at him as he was being forced into the back seat of the vehicle. Like he hated his own father. 

“But i was never a crime to want that.” Martin rubbed soft circles into the skin of her hand. “I still love them. And I know you do, too.”

Jessica finally looked away. Tears fell, racing down past the bridge of her nose and dripping on Martin’s jeans. 

“If you sit up, I could hold you for a little while.” 

Jessica accepted his offer. Marshall rose from the carpet and ambled over to his water bowl, leaving the pair alone for the time being.

* * *

The evening came to a close shortly after that. It was late and Martin needed to be getting back to his own apartment. He was still unemployed, after all, and the hunt was going to have to take place sooner or later if he was going to find a job before his savings ran out. Jessica walked him to the front door and let him out. Marshall sat at her feel and stared up at the two of them. This was going to be the hardest part. 

“I had a good time.” She wiped a free hand in each eye. “I did. I really did.” 

“. . . Yeah. Me, too.”

They each tried to smile again. Didn’t work out. 

Nothing happened. 

No one made a move to leave. 

Martin still missed the mark when it came to unpleasant social interactions. But this was Jessica. He could ask and she would understand. “Is something wrong?”

“. . . You never answered my question.”

“Ah.” That much was true. They’d gotten wrapped up in the ride and missed that part. “Well. You’ve certainly had some time to sober up. Are you sure you still want me to answer that?”

She looked down. No response came. Whatever this feeling was, it had been mutual. It felt like standing in the middle of a graveyard and having nothing to say.

Maybe it was up to him to let her down gently.

“I love you enough to let you go,” he said. “And I promise that you’re gonna be just fine.” Hard to believe. But someone had to. Someone had to try. And despite what most everyone said about his kind, Martin loved this woman enough to end the night and prevent another cycle of beginning again. Otherwise they would just be in the same world of hurt as before. She didn’t deserve that. The man leaned in and pressed one last kiss to her forehead. And it was, indeed, the last. “Have a good night, Jes.”

Jessica didn’t even try to smile. Her words were soft. And louder and her voice would have cracked. “You, too.” She slowly shut the door with a sense of finality that neither of them could shoulder off ever again. 

The man felt his feet carry him out of the complex and down the sidewalks. She had nothing for him and he had nothing for her. Thus there was nothing for him left to do. This was for the best. He walked, looked over his shoulder on occasion, stuck close to the lampposts. There was the smell of impending rain in the air but the old man, for the second time that day, picked the long, lonely way home. It gave him time and space to think. 

Martin Whitly was the common denominator in all of his failed relationships. There was never a time in his life when something wasn’t wrong with him, when he didn’t need to be fixed, or when anyone who got close to him wasn’t in any kind of inherent danger. But this was the first relationship that had failed and got to be laid to rest, so to speak. Jessica would never not be an important part of his life, even if that part had come to an end. And that was alright. 

Sure, he’d have an earful to give Dr. Higa the next time they met, but it was. It was alright. Really. 

Vibrations suddenly rippled in his pocket. The old man pulled out his phone and looked down at the screen. The phone number he didn’t recognize. It could have been a spam call, but would that really have bothered him either way? He jabbed his thumb into the green icon and answered. “Hello?”

“Doctor Whitly?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“Good, good.” The voice on the other line wasn’t a threatening one. Better yet it wasn’t sugary sweet or overzealous in its performance. They had important business to attend to. And they sure as hell weren’t going to try and sell anything. “I’m Officer Jones with the NYPD. We were hoping you could come down to precinct 14 to verify something.” 

“Should I be concerned?

“Oh, no. If you were in trouble, trust me. We’d just come and arrest you.” 

“. . . Good to know.”

“Like I said, we just need you to verify something. It’ll only be a few minutes out of your day. Promise.” 

Martin frowned, skeptical. “I’ve never known the New York police to make house calls.”

“I’m not sure of all the details myself, but I know it’s a special case. Lieutenant Arroyo asked for you specifically.”

Doctor Whitly stopped in his tracks at that. Arroyo. There was only one person Martin knew with that name. And he wouldn’t be asking for Martin for just any small favor. “Does he need me over there now?”

“As soon as possible.”

“I’m on my way.” 

“Sure, let me just give you the addre-”

Martin hung up and flagged down the first taxi he spotted. If Lieutenant Arroyo needed him so urgently, there was no way it was because something good had happened.


End file.
